Chapter 223: Lanterns in the Ledger

“I will.” I glanced around at the paper forts, the dozing revolutionaries, the twilight filtering lavender through stained glass. “But first thank you.”

Velka’s eyebrows arched in that elegant, vaguely dangerous way only Nightthorns manage. “For what? I merely dusted a few whispers off the mirror network and bribed a riot with biscuits.”

I laughed, softer than parchment rustle. “For standing when I wobble, for speaking when I falter, for believing the kingdom could rise on carbs and stubbornness.” A flush climbed my cheeks embarrassment or sincerity, hard to tell these days. “Mostly for not running the first time someone lobbed a jam tart in diplomacy’s name.”

She stepped closer until the dust motes danced between us like startled fireflies. “I’m trained to survive worse than jam,” she said, voice silk on steel. “But I suppose you’re welcome.”

I opened my mouth to reply, when a polite cough drifted over the barricade of ledgers. The Head Archivist appeared, owlish spectacles glinting. “Your Highness, before you retire one final item.” She proffered a small, battered ledger bound in green leather. “Discovered behind Ornamental Ceilings of the Fourth Dynasty. It… may concern you.”

Velka shot her an assessing look. The archivist bowed herself away, leaving the ledger humming faintly, as though it remembered every secret ever scribbled within. I thumbed the clasp. Inside, cramped writing stretched cover to cover my mother hand. Not her public script of royal decrees, but the private shorthand she’d used for bedtime stories, back when he was just Mother, not the distant monarch I inherited crises from.

The opening date chilled: month and year of my transmigration. First entry:

Anomaly: daughter’s demeanor altered following fever.

I read on page after page of observations: my sudden fluency with advanced enchantment theory (thank you, system tutorials), my offhand political references nobody had taught me, my midnight wanderings. His contradictory notes vacillated between pride and fear. The last entry, half-finished, ended: If Elyzara is not Elyzara, what then of succession? Of prophecy?

My breath fogged the margin. Father had known suspected, at least that I wasn’t quite the princess he’d raised. And he never confronted me, choosing instead to bury worries in locked ledgers and policy frenzies.

Velka, reading upside-down, said quietly, “You don’t have to shoulder his ghosts tonight.”

“But I do,” I whispered. “They shaped this mess.”

She covered my hand. “Then we study them in daylight, not while half the palace snores over pastry hangovers.” She eased the ledger closed. “Rest first, revelation later.”

I wanted to disagree, but fatigue tugged every sinew. Together we ferried sleepers to couches: Mara drooling atop treaty parchment; Elira collapsed mid-diagram; Riven talking in academic footnotes even unconscious; Vastrid snoring faintly, clutching a lavender biscuit like a diplomatic security blanket. Aeris and Arion, still blanketed, hugged the cheese phoenix, blissful.

Velka guided me into the quiet corridor. Two sentries saluted; their armor bore new Phoenix-and-Crown decals hastily painted by student volunteers. Unity in fresh enamel that had to count for something.

“Bed,” she ordered.

But halfway to my chamber, another figure blocked the hall: Mother Verania no crown, no regalia, only a travel cloak. Worry hollowed her eyes. “A word, Elyzara,” she said. Velka tensed beside me; Mother’s gaze softened. “Alone, if you trust me.”

I squeezed Velka’s fingers and let her step back into shadow. Mother gestured toward a small oriel window alcove flooded with twilight. We sat, nothing between us but the ledger, heartbeat heavy.

“I saw the archivist bring that,” she began. “Your father’s… confessions.”

I swallowed. “You knew?”

“I suspected.” She folded hands in her lap. “You were always brave, but after that fever your bravery changed complexion became… strategic. I told myself it was growth. He feared you’d been replaced by something unknowable.”

My throat tightened. “Was he afraid of me?”

“Afraid for you.” She met my eyes. “Power unmasks monsters, but also miracles. He never found proof only questions. Then rebellion brewed, and there was no luxury of introspection.”

A hawk cried outside, wheel of dusk closing. The ledger felt heavier than gold.

“I am different,” I admitted. “Not demon, not spy just…borrowed soul in borrowed fate. And I love this realm enough to fight for it.”

Mother’s breath shuddered; tears glimmered but did not fall. She took my hand. “Daughter, borrowed or born, you saved us with pastries and pardons. That matters more than origin.”

I sagged into her embrace, the relief sharp as grief. She pressed a kiss to my hair, like when nightmares stole my sleep as a child.

“We’ll share the ledger tomorrow,” she promised. “Leave doubt here tonight.”

We parted. I rejoined Velka, who watched with inscrutable eyes. “Revelation deferred?” she asked.

“For a sunrise without cake,” I said.

She smirked. “Blasphemy.”

Midnight chimed as she left me at my chamber. At the threshold I turned. “Stay? Just until dreams settle.”

A flicker of hesitation, then she stepped in, slipping the ledger to my desk and extinguishing sconce flames one by one. Moonlight filtered through gauze curtains, silvering our worries. She sat on the window seat; I curled on the coverlet. The room smelled of parchment, lavender crumbs, night-blooming lilies hope’s strange perfume.

Silence stretched, gentle. Finally, Velka murmured, “Whatever tomorrow uncovers ancestral ghosts, ledgers, rogue bakeries I remain your stubborn shadow.”

Sleep tugged, but I smiled. “And I your half-baked miracle.”

My eyes closed. Outside, the castle exhaled, gears of governance momentarily still. Lanterns guttered in corridors, their soft light glancing off Phoenix insignias and newly penned laws. Somewhere in the dark, fresh dough rose for another dawn.

I drifted into dreams where bridges held, ledgers balanced, and a kingdom healed itself crumb by crumb guided by shadows that refused to flee the light.

Sleep did not stay gentle. It split down the middle, spilling me into a dreamscape that smelled of parchment dust and ocean wind, where bridges arched from horizon to horizon stone, rope, light, even spun sugar. Each bore ledger lines etched into the span, balancing figures that glowed when honest and bled when false. I paced across one crystalline arch, feeling sums click into place underfoot. Somewhere beneath, a tide of murmuring voices rose: miners tallying grain, librarians cataloguing mercy, Phoenix scouts reciting treaty clauses.

Midway, the shadows thickened. But instead of swallowing the bridge, they bolted themselves to the pillars, supporting rather than sunder­ing. I recognized the shapes: Velka’s silhouette stitched with starlight, Mara’s chaos halo, Elira’s razor poise, Riven’s ink‐dripped eagerness. Behind them two statelier shadows cast by moonlit crowns my mothers, Verania and Sylvithra stood back to back, holding up an archway of law that shone with honeyed light. As I stepped forward, the figures turned, offering cups of cocoa and quills, inviting me to sign the final ledger line: Kingdom: balanced.

Before ink met dream parchment, a thunderclap shattered the scene. I jerked awake, heart galloping. Not thunder—knuckles on wood.

Velka sat upright in the window seat; moonlight silvered her hair. She’d stayed through the night, chin resting on a stack of pillows she must have commandeered after I drifted off. One look at her taut posture told me the knock wasn’t routine.

“Enter,” she called softly.

The door opened to reveal Captain Lys, cloaked in night patrol leathers. Her expression was all storm‐warning.

“Your Highness, apologies,” she said. “A message arrived by midnight hawk encrypted with queen’s sigil urgency.” She handed over a cylinder no longer than my palm.

Velka cracked the seal. I swung my legs from the bed, tension muting sleep’s fog. She skimmed, then passed it to me.

From Sylvithra:Covert summit requested by South Sea Consortium. They threaten embargo unless granted ‘traditional concessions.’ Meeting set at dawn in the Tidehall. They refused crown mediators insist on ‘new voice of the Realm.’ They mean you. Bring no retinue save one shadow. –S.

I rubbed my eyes. “Shadow meaning…”

Velka raised a brow. “Me, naturally. They anticipate pastries; we bring daggers.”

“To a seaside dawn parley,” I muttered. “I was hoping for a breakfast with fewer crises.”

A soft throat‐clear sounded from the doorway. My mothers stepped in Verania regal in simple midnight blue, Sylvithra luminous as always in moon‐white silk. They must have bypassed half the palace guards; Lys bowed and withdrew.

“Elyzara,” Verania began, voice low but steady, “we would oppose this if we believed refusal kept the peace.” Her eyes flicked to the message. “Yet the South Sea Consortium holds our grain ships hostage. They will only negotiate with the architect of yesterday’s miracle.”

Sylvithra approached, fingers gentle on my cheek. “We will follow, at distance. You’ll have hidden swords in every tidepool.”

“Unsettling but comforting,” I replied, standing. My legs trembled for a breath, then steadied. “Let me wash and don something that says ‘diplomacy, but bite me and I bite back.'”

Velka chuckled. “I have a cloak for that.”

While she raided my wardrobe, Verania crossed to the ledger on my desk. She lifted it—not with fear, but resigned curiosity. “His questions will wait,” she said, tucking the book beneath her arm. “Focus on the living.”

A wave of gratitude nearly unseated me. “Thank you, Mother.”

Minutes later I faced the mirror, lacing a dark teal doublet simple, but edged with silver thread in Phoenix and Crown motifs. Velka fastened her obsidian cloak, shadows feathering the hem. She slipped a tiny pastry tin into her belt: two jam tarts, emergency rations or bribes depending on outcome.

We departed through servants’ halls to avoid curious courtiers. My mothers trailed in discreet royal hush; I sensed their presence more than saw it, like warm candlelight behind frosted glass.

The Tidehall perched on the palace’s seaward cliff an old watch tower converted to host foreign merchants who claimed allergies to high altitude ballrooms. At this hour, only gulls and restless waves bore witness. Two Consortium envoys awaited inside, flanked by pearl‐armored guards. Their silk robes glittered with mother‐of‐pearl scales; their expressions, with calculation.

Introductions cut, we sat at a tide‐smoothed stone table. Saltwind teased stray hair across my face; I let it. A queen might brush it back. A negotiator let breezes remind oligarchs they stood on ground she protected.

Envoy Kisar began, voice polite as sheaths: “Princess, we applaud recent… confectionary accords. Yet tariffs remain unstable. Our grain fleets hesitate to dock.”

“Because your consortium doubled docking fees overnight,” Velka said coolly. “Our harbormasters balk at extortion.”

Kisar’s partner, Lord Demei, smiled sharklike. “Merely responsive pricing. Nevertheless, we favor your new policies of mutual nourishment.” His gaze slid to my belt. “Is that the famed jam of reconciliation?”

I unlatched the tin, revealing two modest tarts. “It is. One tart for each party who pledges no sabotage at sea this season.”

They exchanged glances offended, perhaps, at pastry simplicity. Good. Let them feel unconventional leverage.

I placed the tin on the table, lid shut. “First, grain ships sail unhindered. Second, docking fees revert to pre‐embargo levels. In return, the crown waives last quarter’s import penalty.”

Demei opened his mouth, but Kisar lifted a silken sleeve a silent counsel of caution. Salt spray peppered their faces. Minutes stretched. Behind me, gulls cried.

Kisar’s gaze dropped to the tin again. “What guarantee have we that Northern unrest will not spill south? Your Phoenix council seems… volatile.”

“My guarantee,” I said, “is that I ride into riots with biscuits instead of blades. Grain flows when people are fed north and south alike.”

Velka leaned forward, shadows coalescing into a subtle, deadly aura. “And chaos starves when you cut its purse.”

A hush fell. Demei inhaled. “Provisional agreement,” he said tightly. “We review in thirty days, contingent on stable ports.”

Kisar extended her hand. I shook it, marble cold from sea air. Velka opened the tin; I passed each envoy a tart. They tasted gingerly then with visible surprise. Salted plum jam, not the cherry they’d expected. A reminder treaties could be sweet and sharp both.

We sealed the parchment; their guards relaxed minutely. From the tower door my mothers’ silhouettes retreated silent endorsement.

As dawn ignited the horizon coral‐gold, Velka and I stepped onto the cliff path. In my palm lay the second copy of the treaty, still wet with ink and salt.

“Another ledger line balanced,” she murmured.

“Another bridge,” I said, thinking of sugar arches in dreams.

“And another pastry gone,” she added, licking jam from her thumb.

We laughed, the sound flung out to sea like bright pebbles. Below, waves hammered rock ancient, indifferent rhythm. Above, gulls whirled, bearing witness.